Mycroft Goes Fishing
by cactusnell
Summary: Mycroft tries to poach one of Sherlock's goldfish. Will Sherlock, and Mummy, let him get away with it? Sherlolly


There was a chill in the air at 221b Baker Street which had less to do with the weather outside and more to do with the gentlemen inside. Mycroft Holmes sat opposite his brother Sherlock, attempting to engage in what he considered pleasant conversation, only to be thwarted at every opportunity by snide comments from his younger sibling.

"Sherlock, I really have come to semi-enjoy these evening get togethers. It almost reminds me of our younger days, before you ventured into the world of goldfish. I have missed these intellectual pursuits." He was suddenly interrupted by a loud buzzing sound as he once again had difficulty dealing with the heart muscle as contained in the game of Operation laying before them on the coffee table.

"Perhaps you'll have better luck with the liver, Mycroft, although that seems less and less likely if we continue to indulge in this excellent Scotch. It really is the main reason I tolerate you, you know." Sherlock was now attempting to remove the wishbone, but, with his hand made ever so unsteady by his imbibing, he, too, was unsuccessful. It seemed that they were both rather buzzed, in more ways than one.

"You know, brother mine, I have been entertaining the thought of finding a goldfish of my own, as you once suggested."

"Why would you do that, Mycroft, when you have such a lovely barracuda available?"

"You mean Anthea, of course. Yes, she certainly is lovely, but beauty is as beauty does. Isn't that what they say?" Mycroft sighed. "In any case, I believe that a fish of a more domesticated variety may be in order, don't you? You seem to have quite a few, in any case. Perhaps I should be fishing in your pond?"

Even in his semi-inebriated state, Sherlock Holmes knew immediately to whom his brother was referring. "I'm afraid that I have all my goldfish quite domesticated, brother. I'm sure that not a single one of them would jump out of my fishbowl to be stuffed and mounted on your wall. And I would not take kindly to you dipping your net, so to speak, in my waters!"

"Point take, brother dear, but not conceded. I shall bid you farewell now, while the cartoon patient in front of us, as well as myself, still have some viable organs remaining. Adieu!" And with that he rose from his chair and took his leave, leaving Sherlock to ponder his not so veiled threat to poach his pathologist.

"Never happen!" the detective muttered to himself, and poured another shot of the excellent Scotch.

The following Monday, the detective made his way to the morgue/lab of St. Bart's Hospital to visit, or in her view annoy, his pathologist. He wasn't currently working a case, but thought he would drop in just to forage through the selection of available body parts. He considered St. Bart's a rather macabre version of his own personal supermarket, and was very happy that Dr. Molly Hooper allowed him free run of the place. Within reason, that is. He was slightly surprised when Molly greeted him somewhat suspiciously.

"Sherlock, what are you up to?"

The detective immediately put a rather neutral and unconcerned look on his face. He may not have the slightest idea what she was implying, but he had no intention of allowing her to know he was completely in the dark. "I am usually 'up to' quite a few things, as I am an excellent multi-tasker. To what are you referring, specifically?"

Molly gave an exasperated sigh as she said, "The roses are truly lovely, Sherlock. But there is no special occasion, so I am perfectly within my rights to be a bit suspicious, given your past practice of buttering me up then…"

"What makes you think I sent you roses, Dr. Hooper?"

"They are from the same florist as the ones you sent for my birthday. There was no card, so I simply assumed…"

The rest of her words were lost to him as he considered the situation. Molly had, indeed, received flowers for her birthday, with a card from him. But Mycroft had sent them in his name, as he had been too busy with a case to remember the occasion. Not that he would have remembered it anyway, or sent flowers in any circumstance. So the roses were his brother's first shot across his bow! He quickly turned, and, forgetting the smorgasbord of available organs awaiting his perusal, left the building.

The following day, Sherlock received a text from the good doctor.

MYCROFT HAS INVITED ME TO DINNER. WHAT SHOULD I DO? - MOLLY

IF YOU THINK YOU CAN SHARE A TABLE WITH HIM WITHOUT BECOMING NAUSEATED BY ALL MEANS ACCEPT HIS INVITATION. HE FREQUENTS SOME EXCELLENT RESTAURANTS - SHERLOCK

Sherlock Holmes himself was feeling a slight wave of nausea as he typed the return text. But he couldn't very well order the woman not to go, could he? And why should he want to do so? Mycroft would certainly not harm her in any way. He could be charming when he wanted be. And that was the problem! But he did feel a niggling concern about how far Molly Hooper would allow his brother's flirtation to go, and he wasn't quite sure why.

Telling himself that he was, once again, on his way to St. Bart's to browse the body parts in general, and not someone's body parts in particular, Sherlock made his way to the morgue.

"Molly," he said loudly as he made his grand entrance, "I see you survived your dinner with my elderly brother. Hope he didn't bore you too much."

"Oh, definitely not, Sherlock. Mycroft and I get along quite well, I find him fascinating. We used to see each other a lot more while you were away for those two years, but that was usually lunch at some small restaurant, or tea at my flat. He's always been rather kind to me, especially in your absence. I was just surprised that he invited me to dinner, that's all. We had a lovely time…"

Molly droned on, but Sherlock had stopped listening. He was having flashbacks to his childhood, and a rather competitive childhood it had been. Sherlock, being the younger son, had been a bit spoiled. But Mycroft was older, and smarter, and had never ceased pressing that advantage. If he wanted something of Sherlock's, he usually wound up getting it. But he was not about to poach Sherlock's most prized goldfish. The detective decided to handle this the same way he had handled many previous instances from his childhood. Once again, ignoring Molly Hooper and forgetting all about the body parts waiting in their icy tombs, Sherlock Holmes left the morgue, this time with a very determined attitude.

It was early Friday evening that Sherlock received a text which he had long expected.

TATTLETALE! - MYCROFT

WHATEVER DO YOU MEAN, BROTHER MINE? - SHERLOCK

YOU TOLD MUMMY! - MYCROFT

The detective was snickering internally at his brother's discomfort, and thought perhaps he should call his mother find out what path her intervention had taken. He was surprised to find that she was not picking up her mobile. This was highly unusual as his mother always picked up for him, as his calls came so rarely. After several repeated attempts, he called the landline at his parents' cottage, which was answered immediately by his father.

"Papa, I need to speak to Mummy."

"She's not here at the moment, Will, but I'm sure you'll be hearing from her." Sherlock winced at the use of his childhood name, which his father would insist on using.

"What do you mean, she's not there?"

"I mean that, much like Elvis, your mother has left the building!"

"Going where?"

"I don't know for sure, son, but she wasn't happy. She kept muttering. 'those bloody bastards' under her breath as she headed out."

Sherlock barely suppressed a triumphant giggle as he said, "Headed for Mycroft's, I suppose?"

"Pay attention, boy. I said 'bastards', plural. If you have an available bolthole, I suggest you use it!"

Sherlock disconnected, and sat back in his chair, experiencing a sense of impending doom, which was interrupted only moments later by a call from his brother.

"Mummy is on her way to town!" Mycroft said with a surprising calm.

"So I have been informed. You do remember what she did with that firetruck we fought over as children?"

"I hardly think that she would take a chainsaw to Dr. Hooper, Sherlock, no matter how much she wants to teach us a lesson! In any case, should it become necessary, I shall concede victory to you, and return your goldfish to her natural habitat."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. Molly finds you 'fascinating'! It seems you have won, once again. I never realized how close you had become during my absence. It was kind of you to look after her."

"I did it for you, you git. Trying to keep your fish on the line until you realized you wanted to reel her in."

"Your metaphor isn't working, Mycroft. One doesn't use a rod and reel on a goldfish. One must use a net, rather gently…"

"You bloody git, do you want her or not?" But before his brother could reply, Mycroft Holmes received an incoming text from the mater familias, ordering him to Baker Street. IMMEDIATELY! "It seems, brother mine, that the question is about to become moot, as it is highly unlikely that either of us will survive. I have been ordered to your flat. See you shortly."

Ir was only a short time later that both men found themselves sitting uncomfortably awaiting the arrival of one Mrs. Violet Holmes.

"It does seem to be taking her a rather long time to get here, Mycroft."

"Perhaps she considers our anticipation part of the punishment." The elder brother sighed, and then seemed to gather courage. "Sherlock, we are two grown men. Why are we sitting here so in dread of our mother's disapproval?"

"You have met Mummy, haven't you? This is the woman who decimated Maggie Thatcher, the 'Iron Lady', the Prime Minister, for god's sake, at a cocktail party! Do you remember Reginald Winthrop? No? Of course, you don't! Nobody remembered old Reggie after Mummy had finished with him!"

"Point taken. I think I need a drink!"

"I think I'd rather remain sober, thank you," the consulting detective said. "Better chance that way."

Both men looked up suddenly as Violet Holmes entered, followed, to their surprise, by one Dr. Molly Hooper, looking almost, but not quite, as perturbed as the older woman.

"I think I may need that drink after all, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid. Liquid courage will not help you now!" Violet glared down at her beloved boys. "As you can see, I have asked Dr. Hooper to accompany me, having explained the situation to her."

"Also, I believe you may have considered the legal consequences of handling this situation in the same manner as you handled the firetruck incident, Mummy…"

"Do be quiet, Sherlock. And what kind of a grown man calls his mother 'Mummy', for goodness sake! You really do have some unresolved issues…"

"Been reading psychology books again, Mother?" her younger son retorted with a sneer.

"One doesn't need to read a psychology textbook to know how to deal with you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Merely a good dog training manual!"

"Good one, Mummy," Mycroft interjected, snickering,

"Heel, Mycroft," Violet spoke with authority, and the elder son immediately fell silent.

Now that she had both of her sons' attention, Violet Holmes continued to with her observations. "Mycroft, I would like to believe your intentions were good in this matter, but I cannot say that your methods were. I know that you like Dr. Hooper. You have spoken at great length about her many fine qualities. But, unlike your more gullible younger brother, I do not believe for one moment that you have any romantic intentions in her direction. And, I might add, Molly harbors none of these feelings for you, either."

She now turned her attention towards her younger son. "Sherlock, you are a complete idiot. This should come as no surprise, as I have shared this opinion with you on many previous occasions. After all these years, the fact that you do not realize when your brother is manipulating you is beyond understanding. The only possible excuse is that you have a blind spot in this circumstance, and that blind spot seems to be centered around Molly here!"

The woman took a deep breath, and proceeded to sum up. "Let me cover all the salient points. Mycroft does not want Molly, he merely likes proving his superiority by manipulating those around him. Sherlock **does** want Molly, but he likes to prove his superiority by pretending he doesn't! Molly likes Mycroft, but doesn't love him. She loves Sherlock, but often doesn't like him!" She then spoke directly to the detective, "I should work on that, if I were you, love. You can be rather a git! And it wouldn't hurt to take her to dinner, and send flowers!"

Molly Hooper had been listening to this entire monologue with disbelief. She had heard tales about how Mummy Holmes handled her "boys", but his was the first time she had seen the woman in action. She could only thank the lord that the woman was, seemingly, on her side. She was slightly surprised when the lady's attention was turned to her.

"Molly, my dear, I must apologize for my boys. If it's any consolation, Mycroft, as a child, would only go after something which he knew Sherlock considered very precious. And Sherlock would only tattle on his brother in order to recover his most valuable possession." Now the older woman was beginning to appear a bit flustered herself, almost as flustered as Molly Hooper. "In any case, I know my son. And I know that I have not overestimated his affection for you. I just hope that I have not made that mistake concerning your affections?"

Violet could read in Molly's eyes, and Sherlock's body language, that she had, indeed, not misjudged the situation. "Well, my dear, we'll leave you and Sherlock alone now. Don't be too hard on him. He is, after all, one of my only two shots at grandchildren. And it would be a crying shame to let those cheekbones go extinct, after all!"

Having said that, Violet turned her attention to her elder son, scion of the Holmes family, and her other remaining shot at future generations. "Come along, Mycroft."

"Where are we going now, Mummy?"

"We have someone we need to talk to, Mikey. How do you feel about barracudas?"

Mycroft smiled painfully as he followed her out of the flat.


End file.
